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He got.
Her heart was beating faster, she noticed, as she watched the car turn at the first intersection and disappear, but it was kind of a pleasant sensation, as if she were riding some kind of high. She raised the passenger window, lowered the driver’s window, and gave Maggie a thumbs-up and a grin as she drove past. Maggie returned the salute.
Two birds killed with one stone, Lizette thought with satisfaction. If the guy had been a burglar casing the joint, he was gone. If he’d been a private detective or something like that who’d been watching her, he was still gone, but the report he’d give was that neighbors had noticed him and she’d gotten his tag number and accused him of being a burglar. She was still flying somewhat under the radar.
As soon as he was out of sight, the man in the beige car thumbed a number into his cell phone. “I’ve been made,” he said tersely. “A neighbor spotted me. I saw them talking. Then the subject got my tag number and accused me of casing houses, said she’d give the number to the cops if there were any robberies.”
There was a pause as his handler weighed the ramifications. “Are you certain that she didn’t make you beforehand?”
“I can’t be certain, but I did see the neighbor looking out her window several times, and as soon as the subject came out to go to work, the neighbor came hot-footing it out of her house and called the subject over to talk to her.”
“Okay. Regardless, you’re burned. I’ll call this in, let the client know.”
Thirty seconds later, Felice said, “Discontinue observation.”
She disconnected, then erased the call history from her phone. She’d do it her way from here on out.
Chapter Sixteen
Diana had another errand to run at lunch—new sneakers for her youngest, who had for some reason decided to flush one of his, requiring a visit from a plumber—and Lizette had her own errand, so they went their separate ways.
Lunchtime traffic was a bitch, as always. Getting to her bank took twice as long as it would have during a non-rush period. Lizette was kind of glad for the delay, because what she was about to do felt either important or stupid, and she wasn’t certain which it was.
How much money should she take out in cash? She was able to save some of her paycheck and was consistent about it, but she had her mortgage and utilities to pay, and real estate in the D.C. area, even the more distant communities, wasn’t cheap. She had some money in CDs, despite an interest rate that was so low she was almost paying the bank to take her money, because it was safe. Most of her savings were in a 401(k).
She had roughly five thousand dollars in her checking account, but her mortgage payment was automatically deducted from the account and if she emptied it out she wouldn’t be able to make her payment. The thought horrified her. She’d never had a check bounce, never been behind on any of her payments.
But if she needed cash to survive, if she suddenly had to bolt—
Taking out two thousand seemed to be a nice compromise. She’d have enough to function, but that would leave enough money in the account to cover her mortgage, for the next payment at least. After that, she didn’t know.
Maybe she was morphing into someone who was way more spontaneous and knew all kinds of spy-shit stuff, but she just couldn’t make herself skip out on a bill.
Spy shit? The thought was electrifying. Holy crap! Was that it? Was that what she’d been involved in?
It kind of made sense, but it was scary. She couldn’t see herself as a spy. But then, if she’d been through some kind of brainwashing that had turned her into someone else, she wouldn’t see that, would she?
Her head was beginning to hurt, which she took as a sign to stop thinking about it and just take care of business. At least the headache felt more like a normal headache, and hadn’t ambushed her. Maybe that was a sign she was adjusting, or—or something. She sighed. It seemed as if everything had multiple possible explanations, and how the hell was she supposed to guess the right answer when the most reasonable of the explanations were the one
s that didn’t feel right?
The bank was busy. She checked the time; if she was going to have lunch at all, she’d have to get something to go and eat it on the way back to the office.
By the time she’d finished the transaction and had two thousand dollars in cash safely stowed in her wallet, she had half an hour left before she had to be back at her desk. There was a barbecue restaurant not far from the office; it wasn’t her favorite, but at least it was fast, and saved time because she’d pass it on her way back.
She thought about calling ahead and placing her order, but that would mean putting the battery in her phone, and she felt uneasy enough that she simply couldn’t bring herself to do it. Phones gave her the heebie-jeebies now, thinking that someone might be listening to every word she said.
By the time she pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, she had twenty minutes left. The restaurant enjoyed a decent crowd, because even though the food was only acceptable, it was fast. Some customers were eating at the handful of tables in the joint—placing their orders at a bar, getting their food on a tray, then selecting their own table—while others were leaving with to-go boxes in hand. There were three employees behind the counter, and unlike the girl at the sporting goods place they seemed to enjoy their jobs, even joking with the regulars.
Lizette ordered a sandwich to go, which she could at least eat on the way back to work. The man behind the counter, a potbellied bearded guy who looked old enough to be her father, winked at her as he offered her change. Every woman who came through the door probably got that wink and a smile. She sized him up, classified him as harmless, and headed for the exit. An older woman coming in held the door for her. Lizette smiled, nodded her head, and continued on into the warmth of a summer afternoon that smelled of smoked meat.
She hadn’t taken two steps before she noticed the black car slowly moving through the parking lot, two men, and they seemed to be checking the cars because each one was looking to the side, the driver toward the left, the passenger toward the right. She skidded to a stop, watching, the back of her neck prickling. Maybe it was her imagination, but when they reached her car the driver seemed to hit the brake for a moment, as if they were taking a harder look.
Assess the threat.
Oh shit, oh shit, not a headache, not now!
She forced herself to just look at the men, concentrate on them.
